Bad Country: A Novel (23 page)

Anything else? asked Detective Haynes. For the record?

Just what I said. I’m here because his sister wants to hire me to find something of his she thinks is missing.

Lost or stolen? asked Haynes.

I don’t know yet. Do you?

The cop tapped on his leather notepad with his gold pen.

The sister was looking for a book manuscript or something of that sort, the cop said.

Did y’all find anything like that? asked Rodeo.

The cop looked over his shoulder at Tinley Burke’s apartment then looked back at Rodeo.

Probably not.

Rodeo put his hand on the car keys but stopped himself from turning the engine over when the cop took a step forward.

You sure there’s nothing else, Mr. Garnet?

The Professor asked me to open a pill bottle for him when we were at BoonDocks and I did, said Rodeo. Though I think he left that pill bottle at the saloon, in his bar bucket there, since the Land Cruiser is returned back here maybe the pill bottle will have been too. My prints are on file.

Only for your PI license or for something else?

Might be some variety of them for different things, said Rodeo.

You got witnesses to you opening the pill bottle at BoonDocks?

I’m sure somebody saw me open the bottle for him, Rodeo said. The bar wasn’t busy but there was some custom. The bartender was “Barbi-with-just-the-i” or “Bambi-with-just-the-i.”

Know what was in the scrip bottle? What kind of pills?

Cornucopia, Rodeo said. Pills what killed him?

Off the record and prematurely, I’m not saying. But the good Dr. Burke apparently was something of an expert mixocologist and he actually had scrips for almost everything we found in the house.

Almost?

There were a few undocumented oxys with Mexican markers on them. Burke did not have a prescription for oxycodone. Do you know where he could have gotten Mexican oxycodone, Mr. Garnet?

No.

The cop closed his notepad and smiled very slightly.

Well, I know who you are now, he said. So if we need you to make a statement we’ll be in touch. And of course if you think of something or even better if you discover something that might be useful to Law Enforcement I know I can trust you to call TPD and ask for me directly.

Are you the new kid on the block, Mr. Haynes?

Depends on who you ask, the detective said.

Do you know what’s happening with Clint Overman? Rodeo asked.

Yes, I do, said the cop. Detective Overman’s moved to Shutter Island.

*   *   *

At the restaurant of the Riverpark Inn, Sisely Miller was waiting at one end of a long patio that was shaded by a beige-and-green awning and overlooked the grounds of the motel. Nearby the patio a kidney-shaped swimming pool sparkled in a manicured lawn and several attractive people in bathing suits were on chaise lounges sunning themselves to death. A couple were playing a heated game on the paddle tennis courts and A-Mountain was also visible from her perspective but Sisely Miller stared at the bottom of her Bloody Mary glass. No one else was on the patio of the restaurant.

Mrs. Miller?

When the woman jerked her head up her blond hair did not move a wisp. She didn’t rise but leaned forward and offered her fingertips, shared a tremored grip with Rodeo.

You must be Rodeo Garnet.

Yes ma’am, said Rodeo. I must be.

Sit.

Rodeo took the seat opposite her and studied her as she looked past him trying to locate a waiter.

The woman was a size zero dressed in fashionable clothes appropriate for a well-tended early forty-something on a shopping and spa day. Her green eyes seemed slightly glazed under groomed eyebrows that were obviously but not obtrusively fighting against a facelift forehead. Her perfume was a delicate blend of citrus and smoke. The remnants of two Bloody Marys were in reach of her clear lacquered fingernails. She waved a command at a waiter and sat back folding her hands in her linen lap. She met Rodeo’s gaze directly.

My husband of course is Randy Miller, who was a Pima County judge as was his father and grandfather, and then my husband was Speaker of the Arizona State House of Representatives and now he’s now a leading candidate for the United States House of Representatives running as an Independent. The woman seemed to be explaining something to an idiot.

I know who your husband is, Mrs. Miller, Rodeo said. My daddy was a hand for Randy’s daddy, Judge Senior at Slash/M Rancho back in the 1970s.

Did you know Judge Miller back then? The woman seemed shocked by this possibility.

No. My mother and I stayed on the Res when my daddy worked and bunked down in Los Jarros. Rodeo frowned slightly. The Millers didn’t mix with the Hands anyway, he said.

I seldom go down to the Miller Ranch, Sisely Miller said. I don’t care for Los Jarros County.

Unless you like dirt and jackrabbits, it’s not much reason to, Rodeo said. He paused a few seconds then started his client pitch. You said Clint Overman gave you my name, Mrs. Miller?

Judge Miller knows this Detective Overman from participation on a committee of some sort, she said. And they both are relatively close to the current governor.

I don’t follow politics too much, said Rodeo.

Well, I must so I do, Sisely Burke Miller said. She puffed out a quick breath as if to revive herself in the heat. Suffice to say I needed someone local to help me and you are that person apparently. Are you professional?

If you pay me I am.

I guess I meant to ask if you are licensed and efficacious?

Rodeo narrowed his eyes. I am a licensed private investigator, yes ma’am. And whether I’m efficacious or not would depend on what effect you desire, Mrs. Miller.

The woman leaned back in her chair as the waiter put a fresh Bloody Mary next to the two empty glasses already on the table.

I’m not eating, she said. She glanced at Rodeo. But you may if you like. The woman sounded as if she were accustomed to giving orders.

I’ll just have a big OJ and a glass of ice water, please, said Rodeo.

The waiter nodded and moved off. Sisely Miller watched him leave.

I like wait staff who speak English well or simply don’t speak at all, Sisely Miller said. Is that very bad of me?

Depends on what language you need to speak in the circumstance you’re in and what you might need from a waiter, said Rodeo. And I don’t know much about what’s “bad,” Mrs. Miller. I am mostly interested in what’s useful to get a job done and earn a living.

You are a working man.

Yes ma’am. I am.

Rodeo’s drinks appeared and he drank his water in a single go and then poured the orange juice over the ice and drank half of that.

Rough night? Sisely Miller asked. She raised a tweezed eyebrow at Rodeo’s abraded wrists.

He pulled his shirtcuffs over the sexplay wounds but otherwise ignored the question.

Could we get to business now? asked the woman.

Your brother just died and you wanted me to do some recovery work for you that’s got nothing to do with his death. That the long and short of it, Mrs. Miller?

It’s abrupt. She cocked her small head. What is the job generally in your line of work, Mr. Garnet? She asked this as if she were actually curious.

I find out things that might be useful, Rodeo said. When I get lucky I find out things other people, often official people seem to have trouble finding out.

And you get paid for that?

I always get paid, Mrs. Miller. One way or another.

Sisely Burke took a drink then patted her lipstick dry with a paper napkin.

I’m not insensitive, you know. It’s just that my brother was a burden and now this … Her voice cracked slightly.

You’re under a lot of stress right now, Mrs. Miller.

I am always under a lot of stress. You cannot imagine. Sisely Miller used the napkin to wipe at her eyes though they did not appear to be moist. Still it’s a terrible thing to say about my own brother, I know. Maybe especially since we were twins and you know what they say about twins.

Not really, Rodeo said.

We had a very special connection. She brushed her eyes again. Only I know how he truly was.

How was that, Mrs. Miller?

The woman crushed the napkin and dropped it on the tabletop. He had “issues.”

What kind of issues?

Her small shoulders inside her silk blouse moved up and down. The Burkes of Santa Barbara are … She acted as if she were searching for a complex term. Prominently well-to-do, to say the least. And so my brother and I were trust fund babies and maybe because of that he remained forever the retarded adolescent. She paused. He also did not approve of my choice in husband.

Why not?

She did not answer this question immediately but seemed lost in thought. He considered my arrangement with Judge Miller as overly “strategic.”

Rodeo waited for more. Sisely Miller seemed to stir herself with some effort before continuing.

I married well, at least. And had the children we needed to carry on the family fortune and took on some adult responsibilities over the years. My brother was …

She put a fisted little hand over her mouth as if she needed to physically stop herself from talking.

He was a good teacher, said Rodeo. I took one of his classes at the U of A and Professor Burke knew his archeology and related well to students.

He’s dead, Sisely Miller said. She was not listening to Rodeo. She stared at her Bloody Mary. Rodeo stared at her.

He was always unstable. Just like our father. She said this more to herself than to Rodeo. He was always a danger … Her voice trailed off.

A danger to who? asked Rodeo.

I just meant my brother was dangerous to himself, Sisely Miller said. She waved a dismissive hand. With the pills and alcohol, I meant. The woman put a hand to her coiffed hair then put both hands flat on the table as if coming back to business. So there’s no question about that. About his death, I mean. I know he overdosed on some combination of his addictions, killed himself with a few of his favorite things, as he called them. The woman paused and let out a tiny puff of breath. That’s not why I’ve hired you.

You hadn’t hired me yet, Mrs. Miller, Rodeo said. I’d need some fiduciary exchange before I’m hired.

Sisely Miller leaned back and killed her third obvious drink and then stirred the quickly melting ice cubes with a wilting celery stalk.

But I shall, she said. Because you must find something for me.

Find what, Mrs. Miller? Rodeo asked.

A manuscript, she said. My brother said he had completed it, so I imagine that was true as he always finished what he started.

Is it like a journal or something?

No. It is not a personal journal or a purloined letter or the like. It will be a book in manuscript form.

Rodeo raised his eyebrows in a question.

My brother wrote a memoir that I don’t want getting into the wrong hands.

What would the “wrong hands” be, Mrs. Miller?

Any hands but mine, the woman said. Especially any hands that have newsprint on them, if you understand my meaning.

You want me to find something that the Press should not find, said Rodeo.

My husband is a front runner for an occupied seat from Arizona District Seven for U.S. Congress in the upcoming election … Mrs. Miller stopped abruptly as if this statement explained what needed explaining.

That’s Erica Hernandez’s seat, said Rodeo.

It is currently, said the politician’s wife.

Rodeo finished his juice and set the glass down carefully on the glass tabletop.

I’m staying in a motel not far from where your brother was living and I know, knew him slightly from the University where I took one of his classes last year, Rodeo said. Night before last we were at a local bar and he needed a ride home, so I drove your brother to his apartment.

How was he?

He was in pretty bad shape, so I helped him inside his place, said Rodeo. And I saw a laptop and a book manuscript on a desk in his living room.

Recovery of the laptop is of no concern.

Wouldn’t the manuscript of this memoir book be stored in Professor Burke’s computer?

No. Let me explain something to you. Sisely Burke Miller tapped her fingernail tip on the glass top of the table as if to get the attention of a dull student. My brother was eccentric in a variety of ways including being paranoiac about information and identity theft, so he only worked on one computer at a time, usually a laptop with the Wi-Fi and all the external portals deactivated. As he composed his books he printed them immediately.

What did he do with the hard copies?

It depended on the book, Sisely Miller said. His genre books he usually just had bound at Kinko’s when he finished them and he kept these under his bed or in a closet or armoire. If you saw a manuscript unbound he was probably still working on it. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly as if practicing breathing.

But the more personal the story, the harder he tried to conceal it, she said. He stored these novels in a lockbox or even at times took them to his safe deposit box at the bank. As he grew more paranoid about someone stealing his ideas he distrusted even the best banks, so he began to hide the more personal books. Like buried treasure, he would say.

And the computer he worked on?

After every writing session he deleted all the files from the computer. He stored nothing electronically and backed nothing up, so he had no thumb drives, CDs or floppy disks. He had no Internet hookups in his apartments. If he needed to use the Internet he used it only on community computers at shared sites, usually at a public library. When he completed a book he incinerated the laptop he wrote it on so thoroughly that even expert forensic scientists could not retrieve his files. The woman paused. So you see why the laptop is irrelevant?

There’s nothing on it that could be accessed or downloaded anyway, said Rodeo.

Not by any normal person, Sisely Miller said. And while my brother would have believed that the FBI or CIA or KGB was trying to pirate his brilliant ideas, I do not believe in such conspiracy theories. When she waved at the waiter the diamond in her ring bedazzled.